


best of the best & the worst of the worst

by boleynqueens



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BRF AU, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-10 19:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15298896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: "Henry Tudor, Prince of England, has made quite a scandal of himself. He's left two wives now for other women and thrown the succession of England into upheaval. His first wife, Catherine, Princess of Spain, went back home after the divorce but his second wife, the intractable Anne Boleyn, isn't going anywhere." -- InCeruleanInk





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InCeruleanInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InCeruleanInk/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Star-Crossed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591718) by [InCeruleanInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InCeruleanInk/pseuds/InCeruleanInk). 



> first chapter is a possible prequel, of sorts, to InCeruleanInk's premise/plot of the linked fic. 
> 
> "And I'm wondering, baby  
> Do you hear the phone when I call?  
> Do you feel the void when I fall?  
> Do you hear the crack when I break?"
> 
> \-- "Lonely Town", Brandon Flowers
> 
> "You keep me up at night  
> To my messages, you do not reply  
> You know I still like you the most  
> The best of the best and the worst of the worst  
> Well, you can never know  
> The places that I go  
> I still like you the most  
> You'll always be my favorite ghost"  
> \--"Big God", Florence + the Machine

**Before: 1997**

Anne _hates_ third-wheeling.

Or, rather, she hates third-wheeling in certain circumstances.

With one glaring exception, most of her present circumstances are fine:

> _**One** ,_
> 
> An exclusive “pre-grand-opening” of a bar that resides on the rooftop of a posh hotel north of the Thames; with a beautiful view on each corner (she's already walked its borders). On one corner is St. Olave's Church, its clocktower lit up with a bluish glow.
> 
> _**Two**_ ,
> 
> She is wearing a [decadently gorgeous coat, French-made and slimmed at the waist](https://www.net-a-porter.com/us/en/product/915598?cm_mmc=Google-ProductSearch-US--c-_-NAP_EN_US_PLA-_-NAP_US-EIPAQ_GS_Generics+%28Medium%29_HHI_1-20--Categories+%2F+Sub+Cats+%2F+Price+Bands_AM&gclid=EAIaIQobChMIz6PMlv6g3AIVRJJ-Ch2KtQVbEAQYASABEgKaaPD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds), that flares out into a skirt and keeps her plenty warm on this rooftop (wintry night that it is) with its shearling.
> 
> (It cost her the entirety of her bonus…she’d justified the purchase on the premise that she’d wear it so often it’d be worthy of the price-tag.
> 
> Its various trips to the dry-cleaner’s since have disproved this pretense…still, she finds it worthy based on the compliments she receives for it)
> 
> _**Three**_ ,
> 
> It’s been a week since she found out that her ex is getting married to the woman he cheated on her with.

Anne sits on the southernmost side of the rooftop, at a table with her brother, George, his girlfriend, Jayne, and various work colleagues.

The view afforded from this angle suits her dark mood: the Thames and the Tower Bridge, lit only by the sparks of slowly-moving cars.

Anne hears Jayne's voice and tunes back in to the conversation.

Jayne is George's longest-lasting relationship to date; so Anne would find it important to listen to her even if she disliked her-- luckily, she doesn't. Her outfit is cute, both cigarette pants and tight boatneck sweater are flattering to her small figure; the colors complementary to Jayne's auburn hair… Anne makes a mental note to compliment it later, as she neglected to do so in the cab over.

As the passion in her voice mounts, Anne reckons that this longevity has something to do with Jayne being his first girlfriend to have never asked him to _shut up, already_ , about politics. 

 _Or **person** , for that matter_\-- Anne loves debate nearly as much as her older sibling does, _but Christ_ , even _she_ has her breaking point for it.

Political debate is the topic of discussion right now, as it happens; Anne's workplace friends all keenly trying to throw their hats into the ring-- they're drawn to it, like hummingbirds to nectar, intellectual powerhouses that they are. 

Anne reclines back into the plush chaise lounge chair as she lights a cigarette. Watching the tip glow red in the dark, she ponders how easy it is to set things a flame, how little it takes…

And with that thought, her mind again falls on the wedding invitation, lying face-down on the kitchen counter in her flat.

And with _that_ thought, Anne decides she'd rather not think much anymore at all, and murmurs her excuses as she stands, stubbing the barely-smoked cigarette out on the table's ashtray and leaving the table.

* * *

Anne orders _tequila, two_ , at a bar with fairy-lights strewn up around its edges.

 _No lime necessary_ ; she figures a bar on the top of a hotel with rates like these is hardly going to dole out cheap liquor.

Anne throws back the served _tequila, two_ with absolutely zero interim.

"Step on me."

Anne looks over her shoulder, surprised at the bravado but _stunned_ when she ascertains the identity of the speaker.

 _If only_ she _could be so far-removed that she had no idea who he was_ ; if only she was afforded the dignity of a lack of recognition… _unfortunately, she does not live under a rock_. 

If he were with mates, that would be one thing-- she _hates_ being embarrassed, and detests peacocking on principle; were this the case Anne would _eviscerate_ him, at _length_.

However, his only company appears to be what she can only assume is a very bored bodyguard, wearing sunglasses and a poker-face in the background like the professional he most likely is. 

"Step on _yourself_ ," is all she says instead, crisply, before turning on her heel.

As she hears the resulting, _damnably_ gratifying laugh (rich and full as it is; were she someone with less willpower she'd risk a glance backwards); Anne finds herself very grateful that tonight she chose to wear her hair down, as it covers the flush creeping up her neck. 

* * *

George stands alone, peering through one of the observation telescopes set up at the eastern wall of the rooftop.

Anne announces herself by pressing her hand on the space between his shoulder blades, covered in a leather jacket.

"I'm spying, do ya mind?"

"But I have something to tell you!" she protests.

"Is it more interesting than the fully-lit, curtains-open threesome going on at the hotel across the street?"

" _Yes_!"

"Are you _sure_? It involves blindfolds. And what seems like an _obscene_ amount of whipped cream--"

" _George_!"

" _Christ_ ," he gripes, releasing his grip and turning around to face her, crossing his arms, "this had _better_ be good."

Never one to fail on delivery, Anne smirks, long fingers templed over that broad mouth, saturnine eyes glittering with her secret.

"The crown prince," she says quietly after a beat of anticipation,  "of our fine country just asked me to 'step on him.'"

* * *

"Holy shit," George exclaims, sucking in a breath.

The reaction is rare, and all the more rewarding to her for it-- 99 times out of 100, _you couldn't knock him over with a feather_.

"He seems so strait-laced, though," he says, shaking his head in wonderment, whistling, "man. It's always the quiet ones, yeah?"

"No, not the older one. The younger one."

" _Oh_ ," George says, the word long and drawn-out, "okay, _that_ makes more sense. So it's _not_ always the quiet ones. That's good, though, given that the older one's _married_."

"I thought they were _both_ married?"

George tuts, moving his head from side to side, considering.

"They…technically? The younger's legally separated; _his and hers_ can't agree on a settlement and haven't been able to for like, years."

"That's very posh of them. Most people can't afford legal procedure for years on end, most--"

* * *

"Hey," George interrupts, a plan forming as he unearths his wallet from his back pocket, " _here's_ an idea-- you…should kiss him."

"Oh, piss off," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'm hardly going to _reward_ that sort of behavior."

He braces himself for a feminist rant that doesn't come. Perhaps this _Percy-Talbot wedding thing_ has taken the wind out of her considerable sails more than he's realized.

In any case, it's been the first time he's seen her focus shift from that in days…he feels a brotherly duty to keep her on that course.

"£200 says you can't."

"Why are you _goading_ me?" she asks, pushing a thick wave of hair behind her ear…although he can see her interest in piqued as soon as he actually reveals he has the cash in hand.

"How many girls can say they've kissed a prince?"

 _And what better way to move on from the son of an earl_?

* * *

She laughs at the naff line, shaking her head. As if being a prince meant anything, anymore, in this world. It carried all the clout of being a C-list celebrity fortunate enough to come from Old Money, but worse-- taxes rendered them a parasitic reputation.

The glamour and novelty of the existence of the British Royal Family shone bright in the 1940s and 1950s, sure-- given that they were newly televised directly to living rooms, that was little wonder.

But that glow had dimmed considerably ever since.

"How many _want_ to? This isn't fucking _Cinderella_."

" _You're_ certainly no Cinderella," he says cheekily, chucking her under the chin, "Miss Oxford Graduate. You work at _Bloomsbury_ , for God's sake."

* * *

Anne stares at the cash, biting her lower lip.

 £200 would go a long way in buying a gift off her sister's wedding registry, which she ( _oops_!) still has yet to do.

"How do I know you'll pay up?"

She's stalling, really-- George can be a bit of an arse even at his best; but Anne's never known him to not keep his word.

"Pay up what?" Jayne asks, joining them and looping an arm through his, drink in her other hand.

"I hedged a bet--"

"Oh, he'll keep it," she says, nodding and primly taking a sip of  her martini, "I'll make sure of it."

"See? Collateral. And also…to your left."

Anne peeks over her shoulder.

_Goddamn it._

* * *

Everyone surrounding Henry and his circle of friends (a few of them lanky, all of them singularly handsome, a few of them tall…although none are more so than he is on the former and the latter, and Anne idly wonders if that's intentional) fakes nonchalance while sneaking glances; in what Anne can only imagine is an attempt to not appear gauche.

No one is bowing, of course; but the change is evident all the same: postures improve, laughs get louder, gazes perk like a strand of Christmas lights, one by one by one…

"May I speak with you?"

Henry's gaze perks most of all, at that, and he draws back a little ( _surprised, maybe_?), appearing to adjust his shoulders somewhat (again… _maybe_? _if that's a self-congratulatory shimmy_ she's _going to murder him_ )-- if the other partyguests' are bulbs strung around the pine, his is the star atop the tree.

His mates exchange glances with each other, laughter evident in them even while it's not given any volume.

"Are you going to berate me again?" he asks, tilting his head to the side, smiling impishly.

His voice is on the higher side, polished and Eton-esque. It was part of what had startled her so much earlier, left her wondering _how on earth a voice could sound so very proper while saying those very words?_

"I can't promise I _won't_."

Wolf-whistling ensues, but a glare from their leader silences them readily enough.

* * *

A pair readily vacates a table after he asks if it _would very much trouble them to let us borrow the space_ whilst coupling the request with an incandescent smile.

Indeed, they _practically fall over themselves to oblige him_ , leaving Anne to wonder if it would be the same were any factors subtracted (deference or awe to his status, the politely deferential way in which he phrased the question despite it, his charm, his appearance, his smile alone) as she takes a seat: smoothing one hand over the skirt of her coat, perching another on the edge of the linen tablecloth.

A candle on the table flickers between them as she watches him, carefully.

Neither of his hands are ringed, and he never fails to meet her gaze whenever she gives it; steadily, with immersive blue eyes fringed by long gold lashes.

"What did you want to tell me?" he asks, fingering the small upside-down triangle of exposed skin left by his white v-neck sweater.

"I need to kiss you."

Henry gives a short laugh, flattening his palm against his chest where it was previously fidgeting:

" _Goodness_."

"Don't pretend you're opposed to the idea," she says, feeling her heart beat a bit too keenly for her taste ( _embarrassing oneself for free is unacceptable_ ) and a blush spread over her cheeks, "mere minutes ago you told me something _very_ lewd--"

"I don't know if I'd call it ' _very_ lewd'--"

"No? That's convenient for--"

"Lewdness depends on setting," he says, shrugging considerable shoulders and leaning back in his seat (which still…leaves him taller than her, even seated), "do you expect to go to a bar and _not_ get hit on?"

Anne glares and he grins.

"I wouldn't hit on someone in….a café, or at a library. On the Tube," he continues, gesticulating as he speaks.

"Because _you_ ride the Tube, I'm sure."

"I would _love_ to," he says, something of the conspiratorial in the way he admits it, hushed and leaning in with elbows on the table, "but no, I haven't and won't be able to realistically. Although I _was_ given a tour…I just meant…in theory."

Anne finds herself at a rare loss for words; taken aback by his ability to remain earnest in the face of her scathing words.

It's not something she can recall encountering before.

"I _am_ sorry if I offended you, for whatever that's worth--"

"Are you? You seemed to find it funny."

"No," he says, although he laughs again, softly, drawing a circle with the pad of his forefinger on the tablecloth, "I thought you telling me to step on myself was funny. Novel, even."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Quite. Granted, it was more thought-aloud than premeditative, so I'll offer apologies again, but…why would you 'need to' kiss me if you were offended?"

Anne's ready to chalk her attempt up to a loss-- there's not plausible explanation other than the truth, and she doubts he'll like it very much.

"My brother bet me 200 pounds that I wouldn't."

"Ah, I thought he looked like you," Henry says, lifting his gaze and tilting his chin up slightly, offering a parade-style wave.

Anne looks over her shoulder to see George, shocked, offering a hesitant wave back while Jayne's shoulders shake, covering a probable laugh with one gloved hand.

"He looks familiar, too."

She turns back around to the table, and Henry; with a new softness to his gaze and smile alike; an elbow on the table and a finger pressed to a right dimple.

"He went to Eton," Anne offers.

"That must be it, then…they had me as a guest speaker there, a few times."

Figuring this is the end of the road as far _as seeing him in the real world_ goes; that it will be the last view beyond magazine pages and television screens, she allows herself to admire his presence visibly.

There's much to be said for it, he wears himself better than most do. Even the rakish curl of red-gold looped over one side of his forehead adds to his charm; the all-white outfit is crisply flattering, especially against his colouring.

His lambent gaze never leaves hers during her observations, even as he brushes a bit of snow off his considerably long nose.

But at that she looks above, wondering how long snow has been falling, surprised she hasn't felt the drop in temperature that usually precedes it.

"Shall we earn your quid, then?"

Anne lowers her chin, sees that he's gotten up from his chair while she's been gaping above …

And takes his extended hand unthinkingly, letting him lead her across the walled edge of the rooftop slowly, as it becomes damper by the second with the melting snow.  

* * *

Henry walks her over to a decorated space, a sort of small lounge area, tucked behind the stairwell of the top floor (she assumes he's been here before, as it's hidden by a curtain that he pushes aside), taking a seat at an armchair near its gas fireplace.

"Why did we leave the bar?" Anne asks, unbuttoning her coat and draping it over the back of the armchair opposite.

"In case someone has a camera. I assume you don't want your face in the press tomorrow morning."

"And how did you know this room was here?" she asks, taking a seat.

"My friend owns the hotel chain. Hence the 'pre-grand-opening'…he didn't want me to get swarmed. Or photographed, but one can never be sure..."

Anne nods, unsheathing her boots from her feet and setting them aside before crossing wool-covered legs; hair falling around her shoulders as she leans closer to the fire.

"You don't have to, you know," he says, softly, fingers to his temple, elbow on armrest.

"Sorry?"

"You could just tell him you did, he wouldn't know."

She finds she likes him a bit more for saying so, and the manner in which he did; but shakes her head.

"No, he would. He can always tell when I'm lying."

"Twin telepathy?"

"We're not _twins_ ," she gasps, affronted, putting one hand over her heart, "he's older than I am!"

"He probably looks younger than he is, then. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

" _Ah_ ," he says wistfully, reclining, "to be twenty-five."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-five," he says, turning to face her, hands folded near his hip, and she can see now in the closer proximity that he has some lines around his eyes.

Nothing else betrays his age, though…she can view no silver in that copper hair, or that neat, shortly trimmed beard. He has twice the vitality of most people her own age.

His gaze drifts from her to the fire, a wry smile imprinting the only side of his face visible to her now with a dimple.

"Alright," she says, sighing and getting out of her chair, "I assume you want to go home at some point, so we should probably just…"

Henry follows suit, and they face each other standing in front of the fire.

Anne peers up at him, squinting.

"You seem nervous, are you alright?"

"I'm not _nervous_ ," she says, peevishly, "I just…don't even know how to _reach_ you, God, I shouldn't have taken my shoes off--"

"We could try the bay window," he offers, watching bemusedly as she kicks a boot towards herself.

"Oh…sure."

* * *

"Can I know your name first?" he asks as she settles in, moving throw pillows against the window rather than at her back.

"Anne."

"I’d give you mine, but--"

"It is known by millions, including me…yes."

The space doesn't fit them as much as she'd like, trapezoidal as it is, it's difficult to find an angle.

"Would it be too weird," she asks, flustered at the way he watches intently but stays still himself, "if I put my legs across your lap, I don't know how else to…and be comfortable."

She hopes he doesn't make her spell it out, but there's something so supplicant-like about doing so kneeling that she can't bear to fathom it, much less do it.

"No weirder than anything else," he says.

So she does so, and they're closer for it. Her feet hang over the side, over his knees, she uses ballet-trained posture to extend herself and they are at last on eye level.

He murmurs that she has some mascara on her cheek, and dusts it off with the pads of his fingers, lingering there and then sliding his hand till it cups her jaw.  

It's like that, with his hand there, that she leans in and finally presses her lips to his, gently.

He returns it tenderly in kind, in tiny sips, his lips dry yet soft enough to be pleasant. His hand travels from her jaw to under her hair, feather-light at the nape of her neck.

Anne deepens the kiss, turning it to open and finding that he tastes of wine, and he returns that too; the light touch becomes more of a rub near a pearl of her spine, then a massage so pleasurable that she tilts her head back to gain better access to his touch, a soft, breathy moan escaping her lips as she does (he must feel it in his own open mouth, that warm gust of breath and volume )…

And draws back, his hand slips away as she does; humiliated over the utterance, gaze lowered.

"Will that suffice?" he asks, swallowing audibly.

"Oh," she says, faintly, tracing finger-pads over her lower lip, "yes, I'm sure. He said 'kiss', not 'snog', so…"

* * *

They stare at each other for a few beats, each attempting to gauge the other for any hesitation or rejection.

Finding neither and yet no validation, they remain still.

Anne's gaze flickers to Henry's mouth; and as soon as it registers his is on hers again, sudden and electric as lightning. 

* * *

There's so much variance possible even with no change in position, movement restricted to the upper-half as it is with the backs of her legs on the front of his thighs; Anne discovers this in the minutes that pass.

First it's her hand braced against his shoulder, his own warm and solid against the small of her back, splayed and large. Her hand pressed near his collarbone, dancing over the warm hollow of his throat.

Then his hand cupping the small of her waist; and each new movement is all within a graceful, heady rhythm, reflecting any changes in the kissing.

It's French and then it's his palm brushing against her ribcage, she nips at his generous lower lip and he slides a hand over the skirt of her dress over her legs (under her black wool tights, gooseflesh erupts) down to her calves, traveling back upwards and to the side to grip her hip.

Her fingers twist in the hair at the nape of his neck when he teases her by pressing small kisses along her mouth. She kisses him fully and leans upwards as far as she can, until their chests brush against each other too, and that's when he pulls away.

* * *

"Well," Henry says, breathing ragged, dragging a fingertip over his swollen mouth, "that was… _something_."  

"Normally," she says, clearing her throat delicately, "I would ask for…your number, or something but…is that even allowed?"

"What?" he asks, laughing in wonder as he plays with a strand of her hair, loose and black.

The windows are covered in condensation, he can feel it seeping into the part of his shirt braced against the one on his side.

"Isn't it like…a national security issue, or something? Giving out a landline in Buckingham Palace--"

"I live at Kensington--"

"Well, whichever…"

"I have a mobile," he says, chuckling. 

"Oh, I do too! Do you have text? If you send one to me I'll just have it; I _think_ I left it in my coat--"

"Um," he says, grabbing her wrist as she starts to pull away, "could you…wait, a bit?"

"Why?" she asks, guileless until she follows his panicked glance towards his lap, then its quick aversion…and realizes what her legs are shielding.

" _Oh_ ," Anne says, placing a hand over her mouth to cover the smile forming there, "sure."

"Say something unsexy, please," he says, sounding pained, eyes shut as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

" _Uh_ …let's see…I have an _acute_ fear of arthritis," Anne rambles, encouraged when she sees his nod, "not very sexy, chronic health issue, that, so _due_ to this fear I always use Epsom salts whenever I take a bath…"

"Is this a _joke_ to you, Anne?"

"What do you mean?"

"You in a _bath_?" he groans, rubbing shut eyes and blushing furiously.

"Oh… _right_. Uh…okay, shower grout, indigestion," she continues, as he nods and gives her an encouraging squeeze on her knee, "cod liver oil, earwax, the Plague…"

He nods, and then, after the list stays on-topic for another minute, gingerly removes her legs from their perch:

"You can get your phone now."

* * *

The bodyguard stands on the other side of the curtain, they discover, leaning against the wall (Anne wonders if they wear sunglasses for covert naps).

Henry doesn't have the decency to look embarrassed or even sheepish about that, but Anne does.

He bids her a good night with a kiss on the cheek; and she can't honestly say she terribly minds _that_.

* * *

Anne takes a cab to Chelsea that night with a heavier wallet and a lighter heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've never heard anything so ridiculous. I mean…have you ever had to angle for anything in your life?"

**Last week of January, 1997**

"But enough about me-- what's new with you?"

Anne attempts to gauge her brother's mood, finding it difficult to discern with his hand poised on the keys of his BlackBerry (she forgives and allows it, in a way she would do for almost no one else, as she knows his job-- Senior Adviser to the Mayoral Director for External and International Affairs -- demands such vigilance) and half his coffee cup obscuring his face.

"Not much," she says casually, lifting the remainder of her cappuccino from the bottom of her paper cup with a spoon, "everyone on my floor is supposed to focus on promoting that summer release, the one I told you about-- kid's book?"

George nods, sparing a glance to the device and then back to her.

"And I have a date."

"Oh?"

He leans back in his seat with some interest, crossing his arms, dark brows raised.

"Yes," she says, feeling the warm glow of pride at securing his attention; for the BlackBerry remains, atop a folded section of the Daily Mail, on the round table they occupy at this café.

"I knew a kiss would help get you back out there. Things aren't always as bleak as they seem, no?"

Anne shrugs noncommittally; as thinking of the future wedding date still makes her feel plenty bleak-- but she's been dwelling on it less, so she figures he's at least partly right. 

"How could one feel _bleak_ on a day like today?" she asks archly, gesturing to the window near the café's entrance, and its view of rain lashing against the tiled alley adjacent to it.

George laughs.

"I _hope_ that's not what you're wearing," he says teasingly, pointing at the buttons that line up on the sides of the zipper of her military-style jacket, "you look like a Buckingham Palace guard."

Anne throws a chunk of muffin at him, which hits him squarely in the chest. He catches it before gravity claims it, tossing it into his mouth.

"Buckingham guards wear _red_. And the date is tomorrow."

"Friday…risky. Not Friday _night_ drinks, I hope? Unless that's what you're going for."

"'That' being…?"

"A shag," he says, wearing an _isn't-it-obvious_ expression, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair.

" _Gross_! And no, it's in the afternoon."

" _Good_. Where?"

"A small Italian bakery."

" _Cute_. And who is the lucky man?"

Anne smiles coyly, closing the lid back on her cup with a snap.

" _Anne_?"

Anne gathers her umbrella and purse, then gets up from her seat;  taking the few necessary steps to the bin and chucking her empty cup in it.

* * *

“I asked you a _question_ ,” he says loudly, trying to be heard over the rain and ducking underneath her opened umbrella.

“I know you did.”

The siblings walk briskly, taking a left through the Shad Thames as rain falls sideways, both over and onto the bridges conjoining the bricked buildings on either side of the walkway they pass under.  

Anne will have the longer walk, across Tower Bridge and to the nearest tube station at Tower Hill—George’s to the left of it and towards City Hall.

“I’m _dying_ of curiosity, if you _must_ know,” he admits, huffing.

His hunch is on a poet that’s been published thricely at Bloomsbury—whose interest towards Anne has always seemed to verge outside the realm of the professional, by George’s own personal estimation (which he rates very highly)—and he wants to know if he’s right.

“Well, if you’re _dying_ … we should sit.”

Anne proffers him the umbrella, asks him if he’s done skimming their section of the Daily Mail, and promptly uses it as a dampness buffer on a wooden bench that overlooks the river after he affirms that he is. 

“Who says journalism’s dead?” George asks, taking his own seat on the paper.

“I have a date _with_ ,” Anne says, pausing for emphasis as she twirls her umbrella, darting a covert glance over one svelte shoulder before returning her gaze to George, "the person you bet me a few hundred quid to kiss."

" _Anne_!"

" _What_?"

"I dared you to _kiss_ him, not _date_ him-- it was just meant to be a confidence boost."

"But he's so _cute_ ," she whines, tilting her face back.

George watches nearly-black eyes (the darkest in their family's) sweep over the ebb and flow of the slate-grey waters across from them, a dreamy cast to them all the while-- _perhaps she is thinking of **how** cute. _

"So is a tiger cub, but I wouldn't split a _pastry_ with it!"

He earns a single, short-lived huff of laughter for that, so quick he'd miss it on a stranger, until:

" _Don't_ be a bore," Anne says sternly, shooting him a sulky look, mouth primly flattened.

"I'm not-- I think a rebound would be _good_. Just…y'know…a more appropriate one. Someone your age, someone…not _married_ \--"

" _You're_ the one that said they were separated."

"They _are_ , but…oil and water will separate if you put them together in a glass, too."

Anne squints at him; manicured brows twitch towards each other.

"But the oil doesn't separate to the point of…jumping _out_ of the glass. They're still _in_ the same glass."

She sighs, with no small amount of panache.

"He's a player," he says, pulling his knees up to his chest (the fabric of his pant-legs is getting damp-- the reach of the umbrella doesn't go far enough to cover them, not from sitting positions, _at any rate_ ).

It's not the _most_ accurate assessment, perhaps…word of mouth from George's journalist friends would suggest England's cheekiest royal is actually more of a serial monogamist than his various familial-chosen arm candy would suggest.

 _On the other hand_ …what else _can_ one fairly call a married man (separated or no) whose pregnant girlfriend dominated the covers of _the Sun_ not so long ago?

"So am _I_ ," Anne says, flashing small, perfectly even and white teeth along with her trademark _can't-stop-me_ grin.

* * *

She's _determined_ to have a fun, and it's a dark determination, one she doesn't care to explain. The betrayal of her former boyfriend, the realization that even the sweetest, the most loyal, the softest (almost to the brink of _annoyance-- scratch that-- **to** the point of annoyance_ ) man could be _just_ as much of a treacherous deceiver as the men that wore their wolfish natures with pride…has _twisted_ something in her.

And she wants to twist _back_.

"No, you're not," George says (the uncommon gentleness with which he delivers the words makes her scowl), tucking a dark strand behind her ear and chucking her dimpled chin, "you play with fire. Not men."

"We'll see."

* * *

George frowns and Anne smirks, the opposition a rarity for the two of them (usually the gestures are symmetrical and in sync); but they both stand up from the bench at the same time nevertheless.

He tosses the papers in the nearest bin, and they briefly hug before going their separate ways at Tower Bridge.

"Buy your _own_ umbrella! You're not skint!" she shouts.

He turns, and gives her the two-fingered salute while walking backwards.

Anne's tongue sticking out at him is the second-to-last thing he sees of her (the last: the top of that clear, mod umbrella and her black scarf, snapping in the breeze) before she turns around, only to disappear among the other pedestrians on the Tower Bridge walkway.

* * *

**Friday**

Anne weaves her way through the tables set up in front of a glassed display of pies and cakes; noting the subdued nature of the place.

It's something that takes adjusting to-- London is frenetic, as is her office. The bars she frequents for dates tend to be noisy and jostling and trendy; while this place is quaint, with walls the yellow of old photographs, older couples at some tables and families with children at the others; although all in all the place seems half-full.

"Er…I'm here for the rose cake?"

The woman behind the counter looks up and smiles at her, pen still pressed against the notepad in front of her.

"Yes, dear, just a moment," she replies, _so_ softly (Anne feels self-conscious at her own volume), moving the pen across the paper.

Once she finishes writing, the woman tucks the pen above her ear, a black wand within the grey silk of her hair.

"Right this way."

Anne follows her through an open doorway marked "employees only", to a small table tucked in the corner a few beats away from wooden, saloon-style doors (which could only lead to the kitchen, judging by the sweet, rustic aroma wafting from them).

The table itself is cutely done up, covered with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth, a tiny glass vase filled with purple hyacinth and stalks of lavender in its center.

The table is also, _not-so-cutely_ absent of her date, but she lets none of the irritation felt at that shine through her smile and murmured thanks to her hostess, who pulls a chair out for her cordially.   

"Do you have a favorite fruit?" she asks, in that same soft, lilting voice.

"Cherries."

"I'll see what I can do with that."

She leaves the table, pushing the doors open, which push the smell of freshly baked bread out as they swing.

The creaking sound of them irritates her, as does waiting (under any circumstances that do not require the arrival of another person…queues for films and coffee she accepts more readily than her parents do), as does being foiled in her plan of being aloof due to his lateness.

Habit twitches her hand to nudge for the pack of cigarettes in her coat pocket; discomfort and uncertainty nudge her towards ripping at the plastic cellophane with black-painted nails as she toys with the idea of ripping it off and pushing her way out the side-door near the table, lighting it and inhaling, letting the nicotine sing through her veins…

This reverie is interrupted by the jaunty, classical-sounding ringtone of her Nokia (' _Etude_ ', the only one that doesn't sound like an alarm-clock).

Anne presses the talk button so viciously her thumb smarts, lifting it to her ear:

"Yes?"

" _Is that how you answer your phone, Anne_?"

Her father -- in French, as always.

She answers in kind:

" _You're lucky I answered it at all_!"

" _You didn't pick up at home--_ "

" _I'm not_ ** _at_** _home, Dad_."

" _Yes, I've figured that much out. Je suis Sherlock Holmes._ "

" _Ça va, Papa_?" she asks impatiently, nodding and thanking the busser that slides two glasses of ice water on the table.

" _'Ça va',"_ he repeats with a scoff, _" to go from 'son Excellence' to 'ça va'…fine."_

 _"_ _'Fine'?_ _"_

 _"Dealing with cyclists, best I can…thinking of my meeting, tomorrow, trying to remember if the Prime Minister's wife is the one that likes football or the one that likes crime novels--_ _"_

 _"_ _Juppé? The latter, you are thinking of the first wife on the other--_ _"_

 _"_ _But I didn't really call to discuss me, rather-- to see how you were doing--_ _"_

 _"_ ** _Fine_** _,"_ she says warily, stretching the word out several syllables, _"why would I_ ** _not_** _be fine?"_

 _"_ _I heard about the wedding invite, so I just wanted to see how you were holding--_ _"_

 _"_ _From_ ** _who_** _?"_

 _"_   _George, he was concerned_ _\--"_

_Judas!_

_"George can mind his own-- whatever. I am_ **_fine_ ** _. I wish them nothing but happiness, long lives and the opportunity to enjoy their_ **_very_ ** _ugly future children together --"_

 _"Well,_ ** _Anne_** _,"_ he tuts, his tone a shade too patronizing for her taste, _"that does not_ ** _sound_** _like someone who is fine--"_

"Sorry I'm late!"

* * *

 " _Who is that_ _?"_

Anne glares up at the new arrival through her eyelashes, toying with the strand of pearls around her neck with the hand not occupied with her mobile.

 _"_ _No one. I have to go_ _._ _Je t'aime._ "

Henry sits just as the woman (the one Anne assumes is the owner, given the quiet authority in the way she directed her to the table and received the code) enters through the kitchen doors, a plate filled to its brim in her hand.

She slides the plate and a fork onto the spot in front of Anne, smiling:

"A cherry cheese Danish, I hope it suits."

"Thank you very much."

"Of course."

"Cecily, can I get--"

"You're _late_!" she chides, swatting him on the shoulder with a checkered rag (previously, it'd been peeking over the edge of the pocket of her apron), " _You_ don't get _anything_ , you naughty boy!"

Henry gives a soap-operatic gasp, putting one hand over his heart.

Anne tisks, and the pair of them look at her with open curiosity.

"Nothing, it's just..I was going to do that," she says, winking at Cecily before taking a delicate sip of water.

"Of course…well, here," Cecily says, laughing and proffering the rag, "you still can."

"Oh, no…it's passed, I think," Anne says, waving a hand.

"Quite right."

"I did my best to get here on time," Henry says, hands folded on the table as he looks up at Cecily plaintively.

"Don't lie, darling, you're _bad_ at it."

"I am not lying--"

"I can see your helmet on the other side of your chair!"

"Well…be that as it may, I'm _starving_ \--"

"Are you ever _not_?"

"Do you see what I have to put up with?" Henry asks, turned towards Anne to yield the question.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Anne says, pinching a piece off the pastry, "she seems a perfectly reasonable woman to me."

"A perfectly reasonable woman with other customers," she says, swiping at some flour on her cheek, "so as for your predicament: maybe this lovely girl will be nice enough to share some of her own with you, if you behave."

"I don't think she's that nice," Henry says, smiling impishly at her now, eyes twinkling with mirth.

" _Harry_!"

"No, it's okay. He's right," Anne says, popping another few carbs into her mouth, "I'm not."

"Well," Cecily says, with a shrug and a final parting glance to Henry, "that could be good for you."

* * *

"Are you very cross with me?"

Anne hums, surveying him, increasingly annoyed by how fit he looks.

"I would say I'm _moderately_ cross. You didn't give me a proper greeting."

"You were on the phone!"

"I wouldn't have answered it if you'd been here."

She halves the Danish, catches him eyeing it hungrily, and pushes the plate farther towards herself.

"This is far too good to share," Anne says, coveting the rest, tearing another piece with mouth-watering anticipation (even if he were punctual, she doesn't think she would've).

"I understand. I _have_ eaten here before," he says, laughing and rubbing the dark blue cashmere covering his arms.

"I presumed. Friend?"

"My aunt."

"Why did you pick this place?"

" _I_ presumed, that if you could drink two shots of tequila straight in a row, that you would also like…"

Cecily buzzes in, carrying two saucers with tiny cups, placing one on the right of Anne's plate.

"…coffee."

 _"_ Is he being good?" Cecily inquires, one hand on hip.

"Hm…sort of."

Henry temples his hands underneath his chin, expression duly penitent.

Cecily narrows her gaze before placing the other cup of espresso in front of him.

"Could I get another, actually?" Anne asks.

"Certainly."

* * *

Henry watches as she holds the first cup of espresso aloft, biting his lip.

"Stop looking at me."  

He leans in closer.

"You are _such_ a freak," she declares, tilting her head back to down the shot, feeling the kick.

And the next, still feeling his gaze as she does, intent and heated.

Henry sips his own, slowly, as Anne cuts the bitterness with the remainder of her Danish.

"How long have you spoken French?"

"Since childhood."

" _Who did you tell I was 'no one'_?" he asks fluidly in the language himself, smirking.

"I thought you'd value discretion…we're at a table near the side-door."

"The ' _je t'aime_ ' threw me a bit," he admits softly, tilting his head back slightly. 

The switch from impishness to vulnerability is a jarring one, but she doesn't like the veiled accusation in it.

"It's how I usually end phone conversations with my father," she says unsmilingly, matter-of-factly, a touch coldly.

He colors, seemingly chastened.

"Oh," he says carefully, "sorry--"

"Have I given you much reason to be suspicious of me?" Anne asks, pushing her plate to the side and crossing her arms.

"No, you haven't, I said--"

"Do I strike you as a sycophant?"

" _No_ ," he says emphatically, chuckling lowly and pushing his own plate away, "quite the opposite."

"Alright then. How long have you spoken French?" she asks pleasantly.

* * *

People have been bustling back and forth between the kitchen and the front room, but the two of them hardly notice.

He does, now, though-- caught-off-guard, one tends to notice surroundings more in an attempt to reassert their presence.

And he _is_ caught off-guard at the change of tack, he struggles to catch up-- somehow she always manages to leave him a bit winded.

"Ah," he says, flustered, worrying the neck of his jumper in one hand, "started learning around ten, or so? So is my daughter, actually…around the same."

"Does she like it?"

"I don't think so," he says, smiling, "I think she preferred Latin, actually."

Anne smiles as well-- a gratifying sight, small as it is there's real warmth there; and he feels the warmth that comes from fondness not easily granted.

"Does she look like you?"

* * *

"Not in the frame," he says, unearthing his wallet from the jacket over his chair, "I'd say, she's quite a bit more…delicately so."

Anne leans over the photograph he passes to her.

"Mary, right?"

"Yes."

Examining it, she can see what he means-- without knowing her age, Anne would've guessed around 8 or 9, not 10, for the girl in the photo, slender and short as she is.

The shot was taken while she was mid- _plié_  at a ballet barre, poised, she's able to view her from two angles-- at the barre and in the reflection of the mirror, chestnut curls swept upwards into a butterfly pin. The snub nose is not her father's, but the eyes, Anne determines by peering more closely, certainly are-- hooded and oceanic (in both color and restless nature).  

"I don’t know," she says, with a shrug, passing it back, " _I_ think she looks like you."

"Thank you," he says, sliding it back into a plastic frame.

"She's lovely."

"She is. I don't…see her as often as I'd like."

"Is she not staying with you?" Anne asks, head tilted to the side, resting against a hand propped up by her arm against the table.

"No, she's in Spain at the moment."

"Doesn't she have school?"

"She got her assignments in advance, and a tutor…she'll be back for her birthday."

"Soon?"

They're interrupted by Cecily doing a similar bit to earlier, but with a croissant ( _Is he being good_? except this time followed by an emphatic yes).

Henry tears into it gratefully, then, between bites:

"Soon, yes. I'm still trying to think of what to get her…"

"What do you all even get each others for birthdays, anyway? Horses?"

"Sometimes," he says, laughing, "I'm hoping to think of something a bit more original…in addition to something like a horse."

"Does she like reading?"

"Very much."

Anne can't get a read on if she is in a position, really, to offer unsolicited advice. It's a first date, for one thing, and for another it's hard to get a read on even if they should even continue this conversation-- there's a sadness to him (his eyes misted over at the photograph), and yet an eagerness to talk about her that's fairly evident.

"Like what?"

"Oh, gosh," he says, gulping water, "ah...Dickens, the Bible, quite often…the _Narnia_ books, she just finished _The Hobbit_."

"So, fantasy, sometimes?"

"Sure, why do you--"

"I work at Bloomsbury," she says, pinching the side of her wrist for courage, to ground herself, "and there's… a very-anticipated a children's release. It's fantasy, and incredibly good-- I read it in two days, and that was only because I had work. I hardly slept, just to read, _that_ was how good."

Henry nods, hand curled against his mouth.    

"So, it…won't be out until June. But if you'd like, I could probably get you an ARC--"

"'ARC'?"      

"Oh, uh-- Advanced Reader's Copy. Only thing is, unfortunately she wouldn't be able to share it with friends, or anything, but…I don't know. It'd be very exclusive, and certainly unique. She'd get to read it before most of the world."

His eyes are wide, hand still curled.

"I don't know, I always wanted to have a secret, when I was a kid, so I just thought it might…it's not me trying to angle for a second date, via, like an...excuse to see you or anything, it's on the table no matter what. I just thought maybe she'd like it."

She self-consciously looks down at her hands, fiddling with them on the table, unable to keep to look upon his silent stillness anymore:

"I know it's not like I _know_ her, or anything, I just…"

The rest of the thought is forgotten once his palm, warm and dry, covers her hands. Gently, he edges one of them into his, threading his fingers through hers, running a soothing thumb along the edge of her own.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know what to say."

"You don't have to, obviously--"

"Look up, Anne."

She does, reluctantly.

And is washed over relief to see his smile, that gaze returned to lambency ( _flickering, flickering, flickering away_ and _so, so softly_ , touching her face like butterfly's wings), their connection reestablished.  

"I could've never thought of something like that. _Thank_ you."

Strange how him feeling remote to her, inaccessible, felt so unbearable. Moments that had felt like excruciating days… _what could that mean?_

 _Nothing good, probably…that_ she's _in much deeper than she'd like._

_Much deeper than is **reasonable** …_

"Is that a 'yes'?" she asks weakly.

"Yes, of course. I mean, if you can, I don't want you to get in trouble at work--"

"I don't offer things I can't follow through on."

"And as for 'angling for a second date,'--"

"Oh my God, _stop_ ," she says, starting to tug her hand away, " _don't_ be mean--"

"I've never," he teases, coaxing it back, " _heard_ anything so ridiculous. I mean…have _you_ ever had to angle for anything in your life?"

She hesitates, considering the question.

Well, Anne _doesn't_ angle, no. Over everything else, she asks (or…demands, if she's being frank with herself) directly, and finds anything else to be a waste of time.

And time is finite…therefore valuable.

* * *

"And of _course_ I want a second date," he says, face illuminated by mirth, "I didn't think that was in question."

"Well, you _better_ be on time for our second date," she says primly, "and you _better_ say hello, and kiss me on the cheek like a proper--"

"Oh my _God_ \-- I can tell you're never going to let the last one go especially, so let's go."

* * *

Anne copies his movements, a bit giddily-- the French-made coat over and buttoned as he throws his arms into his own jacket, bending down to pick up a rather industrious-looking helmet with a visor.

* * *

And they're out in the wintry air in the alley that the side-door leads to, near where his motorcycle is parked, perched against the wall, black and silver glinting in the sinking light of the late afternoon.

Henry loops his helmet over one of the handles, then turns to her.

Anne stands against the wall expectantly, hands in pockets.

" _Hello_ ," he says, and _oh God she wants to laugh so bad_ , but interestingly the keenness makes it very difficult to do (so maybe it's more…she _wants to **want** to laugh so bad_ ), "it's so nice to see you."

And now all thoughts of laughing have left her, because he really is bigly handsome (it is…overwhelming, in a way, the height and the broadness and the muscle, even in the neck, and the strong line of his jaw _but it's overwhelming in a way…that makes one feel like they might not entirely mind, being overwhelmed, so much_ ), and coming closer, and his skin is smoothly pale in such a way that she kind of wants to run the back of her hand against it.

"Likewise," she says coyly, feeling inexplicably woozy as he stoops down to kiss her cheek, very softly, smoothly placing his hand along the small of her waist, as if to steady himself.

"You look _so_ lovely," he murmurs against her ear, running his hand back and forth where it rests on her waist, fingers curling there (it feels somehow very risqué and very innocent all at once).

He's close enough that she can smell his neck, sandalwood and [rosewater](https://autrenecherche.tumblr.com/post/173397952100/cinematic-parallels) and something else that makes her brain go a bit staticky (but in a very…pleasant way).

He pulls away and she's still feeling a bit staticky when he asks her, very sweetly, _if she'd like a ride home_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg, this was a binch to format...idk why but smth in the html code went wonky (this is the last time i copy-paste french accents!! I think it was maybe that, idk. it kept changing to making everything italics, even tho it wasn't like that in the word doc)
> 
> anyway, it's probably a bit typoed but it's late so imma just upload and hope for the best, and read it over later, since i know people have been waiting for an update...hope you guys like it anyway <3

**Author's Note:**

> Am I British? 
> 
> No.
> 
> Did I watch a lot of British television to try to place myself in London/ remember their vocabulary to write this?
> 
> ...Yes.
> 
> Just know I did my best on.....that, given that I've never been there. And try not to judge any inaccuracies too harshly, given those circumstances.


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